Deborah Lipp

We saw Wicked yesterday. We had an amazing experience in pretty much the worst seats in the house. It was fun and funny and smart and touching and wonderfully written and full of surprises. All that.

But it turns out it’s also feminist.

The word “feminism” is never spoken. Indeed, neither is the word “women” except perhaps in passing. No one talks about women or sisterhood or empowerment. Not one bit.

But Wicked passes the Bechdel Movie Test (aka the Mo Movie Measure). The show is about two women (Glinda and the Wicked Witch of the West) and their relationship to each other. Secondarily, there are other relationships, including the Witch’s with her sister and her father, and both women’s relationships with male and female teachers and a romantic handsome prince. But primarily, it’s about the women.

Not to make a point, not to Say Something About Women, but because these are two complex and fascinating characters that carry the show, as complex and fascinating characters can do. And what’s remarkable, what’s practically bizarre, is that a relationship between two fully-fleshed women is so rare that it strikes me as feminist to even see it. (Which is the point of Bechdel’s test.) I mean, I watch these two women on-stage, singing to each other, about each other, and I’m suddenly struck by what an odd thing I’m seeing.

It shouldn’t be odd. It should be human. But there you are.